Recognition
by mandassina
Summary: Malcolm finally gets some much deserved recognition. Then his father shows up.


Recognition

"I didn't know I was getting a bloody bauble from the Andorians," Malcolm muttered to Trip as Liz Cutler extolled the virtues of Starfleet's Distance Education Program in general and Phlox's friendship and mentoring in particular, "let alone being promoted. How in the hell was I supposed to have prepared a speech?"

"Just speak from the heart, darlin'," Trip encouraged him quietly, smirking to realize that, from the way he'd phrased it, Malcolm held his imminent Starfleet promotion in higher regard than being the first human to receive an award for heroism from an alien military and the first non-Andorian to receive an award – let alone their highest citation for bravery, the Imperial Star – from the Imperial Guard. Reaching below the table to take Malcolm's hand from where it rested on his thigh, he said softly, "Talk to 'em all like you're talkin' to me an' you'll be fine."

"Oh, yes, easy for you to say," Malcolm hissed. "You're not the one who has to get up there and ad lib in front of three hundred people, including most of Starfleet Command."

Liz finished her speech with what sounded like a slogan for the 'Fleet's Distance Education Program and a word of thanks, and then turned the microphone back over to the captain.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Cutler, and once again, congratulations." There was a smattering of applause in support of the captain's statement, and once it died down, he began his next introduction. "I guess you all know by now, that there were a few members of our crew who were chosen for the initial _Enterprise_ mission several months before construction on the ship was even finished. The position of Chief Armory Officer, Security Chief, and Tactical Officer, was actually the second position I chose to fill. If I hadn't already been personally acquainted with our Chief Engineer, it would have been the first, because, despite what the man I hired for the job may tell you, I was well aware that space could be a dangerous place and that there was a good possibility that not everybody we met would be friendly, present company _included_."

"My God," Malcolm whispered. "Did he just call Shran _out_?"

People who had been privy to the discussions Archer and Malcolm had had over the years regarding away teams and ship's security chuckled quietly.

"Yeah, I guess he did," Trip murmured back, "but look at Shran. He loves the attention."

Everybody who had read the briefings on their early meetings with the Andorians had looked around at Shran, who shot Archer an amused glare and shook his head in chagrin. On the other side of the room, Soval frowned deeply and arched a bemused eyebrow as he looked from the human to the Andorian.

"I also realized that, as _Enterprise_ was earth's first deep space vessel, we were likely to face problems – and dangers – that no human crew had ever seen before. When I started asking around, explaining that I was looking for someone who could think on his feet and improvise, adapt existing technology and protocols to new situations, and frankly, make it up as he went along, I kept getting the same name from everyone I talked to. I have to admit, I was surprised to find out that the one man who came so highly recommended was still only an ensign at the time, but I was assured over and over again that it was due only to a lack of opportunity for advancement in his field and no shortcoming of his own. You see, eight or nine years ago, when we were first preparing to go into deep space, Starfleet saw itself as an exploratory organization, almost to the exclusion of anything else, and only a few personnel were allocated to weapons research and development. There simply weren't enough openings for even the truly deserving to be promoted within their department. Those who had career ambitions sought lateral transfers to engineering or command in the hope that they would lead to promotional opportunities later. They had the advantage of taking their weapons experience with them, but eventually lost touch with the cutting edge technology. Those who simply loved the work, labored away, mostly unrecognized, doing everything they could to make sure that, when we were ready to leave, we had the best defenses and armaments human kind could muster.

"I doubt Malcolm had any idea that he was being interviewed for Chief Armory, Security, and Tactical Officer of earth's first warp-five starship. I'd already met with several of his senior officers in R&D, asking them, if they were awarded the position, who would they want on their team. To a man, they named Malcolm Reed, first every time."

"Oh, bloody hell," Malcolm muttered, blushing and resisting the urge to slide under the table. "What does he think he's doing? Delivering my eulogy?"

Trip gave his hand another gentle squeeze and rubbed his thumb comfortingly over back of Malcolm's. "Why don't you lead off with that?" he suggested. "Make it a joke. Tell him it's a bit premature."

"You don't think it would be inappropriate?" Malcolm whispered. "After all, I've had a number of close calls."

"Nah," Trip said out of the side of his mouth. "People appreciate your dry wit, an' hell, after what we've been through together, if I can see the humor in it, anybody who knows you can."

"And now, I'm about to tell you the part of the story I've never shared with anyone," Archer said.

"Good lord, he isn't finished yet?" Malcolm wondered.

"I could not for the life of me imagine this very proper, very military, very, _very_ spit-and-polish Brit adapting, improvising, and making things up as he went along. I was starting to feel like the victim of a _huge_ practical joke conspiracy. So I decided to challenge Malcolm with a no-win scenario. It started with an attack out of nowhere that took out our warp drive.

"Of course, Malcolm's response was to polarize the hull plating, fight back with everything we had, and maneuver the best we could with thrusters and impulse power. So, of course, one by one, I took those things away from him, too.

"Now, if I had the hostiles blow up the ship, the scenario was over, and I hadn't yet pushed Malcolm to deal with anything that didn't already have a recommended response protocol, so I told them there was a boarding party.

"D'you think Shran would take back my Star if I strangled the captain now?" Malcolm asked _sotto voce_.

Trip chuckled softy and said, "Hush, I wanna hear this story."

"Of course, Malcolm met them at the airlock with side arms and rifles, and naturally, I told him they had no effect. Malcolm had his assault team fall back, and there was a running battle throughout the corridors of our imaginary ship. Finally, Malcolm had enough of being told that none of his tactics, some of them quite inventive, were working. So he leaned forward and told me, 'Respectfully, Captain, it's obvious that you are trying to determine how I would deal with an invincible enemy. The fact is, _no_ enemy is invincible. Just because _we_ can't figure out how to defeat them doesn't mean they can't be defeated. If it comes right down to it, I will position teams armed with bricks on the bridge, in engineering, and in the armory. When the hostiles arrive, we will simply pummel them.'

"Now, I was starting to see the man everyone had been talking about, the man who would never give up, who would always have one more idea, but I couldn't leave well enough alone. 'Ensign,' I said, 'you're on a starship. Where do you expect to find bricks?'"

The crowd chuckled politely. Malcolm growled softly. Trip squeezed his hand again.

"He actually growled at me then," Archer said. "That's the only word I know to describe the sound he made…And then he realized what he'd done, how improper and unmilitary it was, and I literally saw him pull his military manners around himself like a cloak again. When he was back in his full spit-and-polish persona, he looked me dead in the eye and said in his most mild and proper voice, "'Very well, then, sir, meatloaves. Academy mess hall recipe. Second dinner service, near the end of the evening, after they've had time to dry out. I'll program the protein resequencers myself the day I report for duty.'"

Archer paused again for laughter, and it was obvious that he didn't get the response he'd been anticipating. The polite chuckles were enough to let him know that people had got the joke, but that it had probably sounded better in his head.

"Gawd, but the man knows how to kill a good story, doesn't he?" Trip murmured, leaning close to Malcolm.

Malcolm snorted softly. "This is what it would have felt like had the baby gazelle stepped in a porcupine burrow, broken its leg, and been ripped to shreds by a pride of lions, isn't it?"

Trip's snort was a bit louder than Malcolm's, and it got a quick sideways glance from the captain. As the engineer sat there trembling with silent laughter, the captain droned on.

"Well, I laughed at him, too. I'd just eaten lunch at the academy mess hall, and they had served meatloaf that day. I could imagine a boarding party being temporarily stunned by being pelted with a few of them. But then I asked Malcolm, 'At what point do you consider surrender?'

"He just blinked at me for a long moment, almost as if he was confused."

"I _was_ confused," Malcolm muttered to Trip. "It was a bloody foolish question."

"Then he said in that very proper and polite tone he tends to use when he thinks I'm being particularly foolish, 'Begging your pardon, sir, but I don't think you understand my job. I _don't_ consider surrender. Not ever. I fight to protect my ship, her captain, and her crew, at all costs, with weapons, if possible; by treachery, traps, and deceit, if advisable; and with hands and feet by tooth and claw, when necessary. It's my job to go down with the ship, if it comes to that. I don't stop fighting until _you_ give the order to surrender.'

"Well, that little speech of his made up my mind on the spot," Archer seemed to _finally_ be wrapping things up. "There would be eighty-three souls on _Enterprise_ , when she was fully staffed, and he was taking personal responsibility for ever one. Beyond that, he understood how special _Enterprise_ was, even before she was fully constructed. He wasn't just concerned about the material asset of the ship, or the figurehead of the captain, or the even the lives of the crew. He already saw the bigger picture, the community, the sort of _family_ we would become, the…icon _Enterprise_ could be. He understood what it meant to protect every part of that.

"I offered Malcolm the position then and there. It took him a moment to register that it meant a promotion and the responsibilities of a department head. He kept asking me who he was supposed to report to and who his direct supervisor would be, expecting there to be another level of command between him and the bridge, but when it finally sank in that he was going to be _Chief_ Armory, Tactical, and Security Officer, he accepted the job.

"And the rest, as they say…"

"Is a big, fat cliché," Malcolm sighed so only Trip could hear.

Trip huffed a silent laugh and squeezed his hand encouragingly, one more time. "Remember darlin', just keep it short an' sweet. The people out there who know you already like you, even the ones who don't know you are proud of you, an' you've already impressed the hell out of 'em all. Just speak from the heart, an' they'll love you for it."

Malcolm nodded to Trip's advice and disentangled their fingers under the table when the captain called him to stand and come to the podium.

"You're a tough act to follow, sir," he said quietly as he lifted his chin to grant the captain access to attach his new pip to his collar. Shran had already pinned the Andorian Imperial Star to his uniform in a ceremony earlier that day and Malcolm sighed to think the ornament, a rare, pale blue double-star sapphire cabochon centered in a six-pointed star of small trillion cut sapphires, would overshadow his pips.

"You don't think it was a little too much?" Archer asked him anxiously.

Malcolm glanced down at the Star. The cut stones were arranged in a gradient pattern with the darkest ones at the center and the palest, almost clear ones at the tips of each ray of the Star. Three briolette cut sapphires hung from the tips of the lower three rays of the star.

"Any larger and it would be gaudy," he decided. "But at less than four centimeters, I think it's a brilliant work of art."

Archer smirked. "I meant my introduction, _Commander_."

Malcolm started slightly, both embarrassed by his misunderstanding and pleased to hear himself addressed by his new rank.

"Perhaps it _was_ a bit personal, sir," he said. Archer was no story-teller, but he was sincere, and Malcolm appreciated that. "Most of the crowd doesn't know either of us, or the academy meatloaf, well enough to get the jokes."

Archer huffed a quiet laugh, and said, "You're allowed to tell me I blew it, Malcolm."

"I would _never_ , sir," Malcolm replied, which, in Malcolmese meant he _had_ blown it, but Malcolm was much too polite to say so.

The two of them turned and shook hands, obediently facing and smiling for the photographer who was covering the promotions and awards ceremonies for the _Starfleet News_ and the press release. Turning back to the microphone Archer said, "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Commander Malcolm Stuart Reed." He turned to shake Malcolm's hand once more, and then stepped back as the newly-minted commander approached the microphone.

Gripping the podium partly to keep his hands from shaking, Malcolm searched his mind for something to say, and the only thing to come to mind was Trip's suggestion. "Thank you for the lovely introduction, Captain Archer," he said, "but don't you think it's a bit premature to be delivering my eulogy?"

When the audience laughed and Archer grimaced, Malcolm felt himself relax a little, enough, in fact, to lend his captain a little support. "For the record," he said, deadly serious, "it's meatloaf recipe number four on the _Enterprise_ protein resequencers."

He got another little chuckle, which gave him a moment to take a deep breath and look down at his hands where they rested on the podium, noticing the still-pale, brand new, baby soft skin as he used the moment to collect his thoughts. Then he looked up and saw a room full of friends smiling at him and realized Trip was right. Most of these people genuinely cared for him, and he cared for them, even their Andorian guests, some of whom he'd only met a few weeks ago. And suddenly, he knew just what he wanted to say.

"I must admit," he began, "I feel something of a fraud."

There was a slight murmur, and he waited for it to die down.

"I have never sought promotion, reward, or recognition in my job. As most of you know, I don't like being the center of attention."

A small chuckle rippled through the crowd. Everyone who knew him was well aware of his reserved nature, except when teaching a martial arts class or how to properly handle a phase weapon.

"And unlike Lieutenant Cutler, I never made the time to pursue continuing education through Starfleet's Distance Education Program." The fact was, he'd been learning far more by adapting to challenges on the job than any DEP course could have taught him, and had been approached more than once to write texts and design courses for both the Academy and the DEP.

"I enjoy my job," he said. "I'm reasonably good at it, and I believe that it matters. That's always been enough for me. To be able to pursue my chosen profession as the Chief Armory Officer on _Enterprise_ these past several years has been a privilege and an honor beyond my greatest expectations, but, not because of the work. I feel a bit like a fraud because, if I have ever done anything exceptional or innovative or heroic or even merely noteworthy in my service to _Enterprise_ , it is simply because I care about my ship and her crew, my captain," He looked to Archer, "my colleagues," he looked to the group of armory crew and security staff in the middle of the third and fourth rows, "my friends," he smiled at Hoshi, T'Pol, Travis and Phlox, then turned to Trip with a grin, "and _our_ friends," he locked eyes with Shran and when he got a nod of acknowledgement, tilted his head slightly in reply before giving Ambassador Soval the same sign of respect, "too much to give my duties anything less than all I've got. So…thank you all, for helping me get here today. Just…thank you."

There were a couple of Awws from the women as Malcolm stepped away from the podium, and then a round of applause. When Archer stepped up to direct the audience into the reception hall next door, Malcolm returned to his seat beside Trip with a sigh. Without a word, the commander grabbed his hand and gave a squeeze, conveying all his love and pride with just a look, a touch, and a smile.

In order to preserve the dignity of the occasion, Starfleet had banned outside media from the promotion ceremony itself, but to keep the peace and maintain their support, they had allowed thirty minutes for Q&A in the garden adjoining the assembly room where the ceremony had taken place. There were four microphones set up out in the sun, one for Malcolm, who was expected to get the most press owing to the Imperial Star; one for Liz, who had been asked specifically to plug the DEP since she was about to start working on her full Medical Doctorate with specialties in emergency medicine and xenobiology; and two more for a couple dozen other recipients of promotions, awards, and special recognition, including Trip, who had received honorary advanced degrees in warp field engineering from MIT, warp theory from Cornell, and plasma physics from Cal Poly; Hoshi, who had received four different linguistics degrees; and Travis who had, entirely under everyone's radar, completed with high honors his Master of Science degree in navigational systems design through the Georgetown University Extension Program, a particularly notable achievement since he had done it in just four years – including their year spent in the Expanse - when, under the best of circumstances, the combined undergraduate-graduate degree program was usually a five-year commitment for a young boomer who had initially enrolled with no college credits at all. It was a red-letter day for Starfleet as her best and brightest, most of them from the _Enterprise_ crew, got to be charming and brilliant and witty and popular for the masses, while the captain finally got a reprieve from the media spotlight.

"Good Lord! I understand now why the captain hates press conferences," Malcolm grumbled as they came back into the assembly room after the Q&A.

"Aw, it wasn't so bad, was it?" Trip asked.

"I thought it was kind of fun," Travis agreed.

"That's easy for you to say!" Malcolm responded. "You lot answered what, two or three questions a piece? Those vultures were grilling me the entire half hour. I could barely finish my answer to one question before someone blurted another at me." Turning to Liz Cutler, he asked, "What about you, Lieutenant?"

"Oh, I didn't mind so much," Liz told him. "But that's just me. I am sure the Imperial Star earned you a lot more attention than the rest of us."

"I think Liz hit the nail on the head," Hoshi said quietly. "It's probably a very individual experience. I mostly hid in the back and only had to answer one question from a college newspaper that was directed to me and specifically about my field of study. I'd have been terrified if I were in your shoes, Commander."

Glancing at Trip, Malcolm told her, "Don't worry about him, he loves the attention."

When Hoshi giggled, Travis chuckled, and Liz gave an unladylike snort, Malcolm frowned at Trip in confusion. Trip licked his lips and grinned. "She was talkin' to you, _Commander_."

Malcolm had the grace to blush.

"Oh, well, yes, I suppose I should have realized that," he said blushing. "Thank you, Hoshi, it's nice to know someone understands how…uncomfortable I find all the attention, particularly when I don't really recall most of what I supposedly did to deserve it."

"You're welcome, Commander," she said, looping her arm through Malcolm's in a companionable way. "We introverts have to stick together."

Before Malcolm could respond, Archer slipped back into the assembly hall, telling them, "Guys, the admiral is asking for you. Everybody wants a chance to shake your hands."

"Good luck, Commander," Hoshi said, giving Malcolm a friendly peck on the cheek before heading off with Liz and Travis.

"I don't suppose begging off with a migraine would be acceptable?" Malcolm suggested as he and Trip watched the junior officers head out with the captain.

"'Fraid not, darlin'," Trip said, throwing an arm round Malcolm's shoulders and pressing a kiss to his temple. "But you just stick close to me an' I'll have you outta there in an hour, includin' makin' the required three circuits of the room an' getting' pleasantly lubricated with champagne in the process."

Malcolm pretended to swoon and said breathily, "You're my knight in shining armor."

Chuckling together, they headed into the reception room to face the masses one more time.

Malcolm was astonished how many people he'd never met before wanted to pose with him for photographs. Even more exhausting were the number of women trying to kiss him and the number of men wanting to shake his hand. With the ladies, it was easy enough to offer them a cheek to buss, but some of the men, well, he wasn't sure if they were testing his strength or didn't know their own, but his hand ached from the squeezing and his elbow was getting sore from the up and down motion. Even that wouldn't have been so bad if not for everyone wanting him to tell the story of how he won the Imperial Star. No matter how many times he said, "I'm sorry, you'll have to read the reports, I don't really recall," it never became less awkward.

Then, through a break in the crowd, Malcolm recognized one particularly dour face heading his way that convinced him the reception was about to go from tiresome but not particularly horrible, to hell in a handcart.

"Oh, God, Trip, get me out of here!" he pleaded softly, leaning toward his partner. "Mayhem at two o'clock."

Trip looked in the direction Malcolm had indicated. "Holy…" He stopped himself before he let the expletive slip. There were some things you just didn't say in polite company. "Mal, is that your dad?" It was a rhetorical question. The retired Rear Admiral was steaming their way in his full Royal Navy dress uniform, cleaving the crowd before him like the bow of a mighty battleship and leaving curious onlookers in his wake.

"Yes. Please, get me out of here," Malcolm whispered. "I c-can't cope with him tonight."

Trip looked around for an exit, and finding none convenient, he said, "We're not going anywhere, Mal, but it's ok. I'll handle it."

Turning to intercept the old admiral and steer him away from his son, Trip found himself literally eye-to-eye with the portly gentleman, his slightly straining coat buttons poking Trip in the stomach. Stuart Reed harrumphed and said loudly enough for the nearest dozen people to hear, "If you'll excuse me, Commander Tucker, I'd like to speak to my son."

Swallowing hard in a dry throat, Trip bit his bottom lip and turned to let the old man pass. The Admiral had issued his request just loudly enough that there was no way Trip could refuse him without seeming to cause a scene. Confronted with his father, Malcolm reflexively snapped to attention. Trip shuffled to stand beside and just a little behind his partner, trying with his presence to convey all the sympathy, apology, encouragement, and support he didn't dare put into words at this moment. Most of the onlookers knew nothing of the rift between the admiral and his son, but Stuart's tone had been just confrontational enough to make them all stop and stare with subconscious recognition. The fact that most of the _Enterprise_ crew _did_ know something of the bitterness between the Reed men, made them stop their conversations to watch their friend and colleague in concern. As a result, the entire room fell silent in about two seconds flat. Trip hoped he was the only one who noticed Malcolm's knees were trembling.

Malcolm felt Trip's warmth standing just behind him on his right and thought that might be the only thing keeping him upright under the force of the Old Man's baleful glare. He couldn't help the sharp intake of breath as his father's gaze raked over him, from the crown of his head (the mild unruliness of his slightly curling hair an affront to the admiral's eyes, no doubt) to the shine (you actually _need_ the spit to get a true polish, boy) on the tips of his boots and back up. He nearly gasped as his father reached for him, but just managed in time to turn it into a silent breath drawn in between slightly open lips as the admiral merely brushed some imaginary lint from his shoulder. He didn't know how the whole room couldn't hear his heart thumping away in his chest as the Old Man opened his mouth to speak, probably to reprimand him for a dirty uniform, but then shut it, lips pursed and brows drawn together as if he'd been sucking on a lemon, and seemed to reconsider.

Then, taking half a step back, the crowd moving to give him room, Rear Admiral Stuart Reed, R.N., Retired, came to full attention, facing his son, and snapped off a crisp and very proper military salute. After half a second's stunned hesitation, Malcolm responded in kind. Stuart looked him up and down once more, clapped him on the shoulder, and said heartily, "Well done, Lad!"

Malcolm drew a startled breath, gave a bemused little smile, and said, "Thank you, Father."

The moment broke, the tension dissipated, and the crowd resumed their conversations where they had left off a moment before. Trip unobtrusively gave Malcolm a gentle nudge with his elbow, silently telling him, _See there? It's all right._

"Your mother and I are staying at the Scarlet Huntington in Nob Hill for the week," Stuart said. "I do hope you can join us for dinner one evening." Glancing at Trip, he added, "Commander Tucker, the invitation naturally includes you, as well."

"Yessir," Trip, delighted with the recognition, agreed with a charming grin. He was just as stunned as Malcolm by the Old Man's behavior, but he wasn't going to try to figure it out.

"So what do you say, Lad?" Stuart asked Malcolm. "Your sister will be in town until Thursday, if you'd like to see her, too."

"Erm…certainly, Father," Malcolm stammered. "I-I'll call you tomorrow morning to make arrangements."

"Very well, then, Lad, I'll await your call," Stuart said, and, executing a perfectly precise about face, he turned and walked away through the crowd.

Malcolm turned to face Trip, folding his arms over his chest to hide the trembling of his hands. "Tell me that really happened," he quietly demanded. "Tell me I'm not hallucinating."

"Nope, he was here," Trip assured him, "big as life."

"And for once not twice as ugly," Malcolm muttered. "Would you mind terribly accepting their dinner invitation with me?"

"Darlin', it would be my pleasure," Trip said in a low, loving voice. "Are you ready to go?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes, I think that…"

"Oh, _Mally_! You look so _handsome_ in your dress uniform!"

He didn't get to finish his thought, as his sister, Madeline, and his mother, Mary, descended on them, but that was okay because they showered him with affection and Maddy's gentle teasing kept him laughing the rest of the evening. Not even Mary, fretting about her husband's absence, had caused more than a moment of quiet confusion when Malcolm was able to tell her, "We already spoke, Mother. In fact, you just missed him by a minute or two. He was…quite…complimentary."

As it turned out, that evening had been the turning point in Malcolm's relationship with his father. Trip had rearranged his plans with his own family so he could be there to support Malcolm as he took full advantage of Stuart's conciliatory mood. They'd shared meals and visited museums and other attractions together several times that week, sometimes being joined by various members of the seemingly vast Tucker clan, sometimes just Malcolm and his father on their own. At some point, apparently without ever discussing it, father and son had come to the joint realization that, whatever had caused the rift that had grown between them for so many years, it didn't matter anymore. While they didn't suddenly become especially affectionate toward one another, their time together was no longer marked by anxiety and antagonism. Instead, there was just the silent recognition that, yes, they were capable of the kind of close, mature friendship any father and son who loved each other would wish to have. By the end of the week in San Francisco, plans had been made for Malcolm, Trip, Trip's parents, and his brother and sister-in-law to spend a week in Malaysia visiting the Reeds. While Trip and Malcolm were away on their next tour of duty on _Enterprise_ , the Reeds, including Madeline and Malcolm's slightly dotty maiden aunt, Sherry, spent a week visiting the Tuckers in their Mississippi home. Over the next year or so, the two men and their families coordinated a wedding which took place on _Enterprise's_ next visit to earth.

Malcolm paused the video just at the point where his father had clapped him on the shoulder and told him, "Well done, Lad!"

"Trip, love?"

"Hmm?" Trip hummed without pausing in placing the tiniest kisses along his husband's slender neck.

"Do you think he knew then that he was sick?"

Stuart Reed had died of an inoperable brain tumor three years to the day after his son's promotion ceremony, just over a year after the wedding, which had been fifteen years ago, today.

Trip did stop his ministrations to Malcolm's neck, now, and nudged his husband gently out of his lap. As Malcolm shifted to the cushion beside him, Trip turned in his seat to face him. Malcolm's voice hadn't betrayed him, but after so many years together, as colleagues, friends, lovers, and partners, Trip recognized instantly the insecurity behind the question. While there was no doubt the reconciliation between father and son had been genuine, it was almost too little, too late, and Malcolm still had trouble believing his father's praise on the occasion of his promotion was sincere.

"Mal, your father was a lot of things," Trip said. "But didja ever know him to be a liar?"

Malcolm frowned and shook his head. "No," he said. "He was always honest, often brutally so."

Trip nodded, satisfied with his answer. "That's what I thought."

Malcolm asked, "Why?"

"Well, if he never lied to you before, there's no reason to think he was lyin' to you there," Trip said. "Doesn't matter one way or the other if he knew he was sick or not. He was your father, you are his son, he was proud of you an' he wanted you to know it, so he told you. That's all there is to it."

Malcolm thought about that a moment, then graced Trip with a sweet, happy, loving smile. "How do you always know what to say?"

Trip grinned and gave a shrug. "I guess it has somethin' to do with all the time I spent tryin' to figure you out while you were tryin' to figure me out."

"I suppose so," Malcolm agreed, and turned back to the video screen. Trip resumed kissing his neck. Both men laughed aloud when Maddy came into the frame squealing, "Oh, Mally! You look so handsome in your dress uniform!"

Malcolm settled back against Trip, closed his eyes, and sighed contentedly in sudden recognition of the fact that somehow, against all odds, and almost without his noticing, he had ended up with everything he'd ever wanted.

FIN

Author's note:

I had honestly hoped my first, and possible only, post in this fandom would be something better, but this thing just sort of said, 'Here I am. I'm finished. I'm not your best work by far, but nothing you can do will make me any better.'

This was actually supposed to end with Malcolm's speech. It was also supposed to be the end of a longer story I have in the works, but it doesn't fit with the direction that story is taking. (Don't hold your breath for the longer story, I am notorious for not finishing things.) Then of course, I decided there had to be a reception after the ceremony. Oh, and wouldn't it be interesting if Stuart Reed showed up to the reception? Of course, I wasn't going to let him ruin Malcolm's evening, so he had to be conciliatory. After so many years of contention, Malcolm had to respond, and one thing would lead to another, and if I fleshed it all out properly, it would be another multi-chapter story. Since I didn't really have enough plot ideas to sustain a multi-chapter story of this nature, I decided to take Trip's advice and 'keep it short an' sweet,' but I'm not even sure I've achieved that.

I'm not even all that pleased with the title, but it seems appropriate in that Malcolm receives or achieves some sort of _recognition_ in each scene.

If you've read this far and haven't done so already, please review, if only to tell me if this was worth posting or would have been better moved to my recycle bin?


End file.
